Angels and Demons
by nrynmrth
Summary: Drabble series. Essentially a collection of responses to one-word prompts focusing on interactions between Sherlock, Watson, and Jamie, with guest appearances from Kitty, Marcus, and Gregson and a few tiny crossovers. Spoilers through season 4 depending on the drabble, fair warning.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Helloooooo all! I'm a huge Elementary fan, and I've been writing drabbles on and off for the last two years or so, and I thought I'd finally start posting them! They're really tiny, so I'm posting about five in one chapter for now. The genre ranges from drama to romance to angst to hurt/comfort to literally anything, so I'd advise you to keep an open mind while reading! They're all centered on Sherlock and Watson and Jamie, with dashes of Kitty and Marcus and Gregson thrown in. Spoilers through season 4 depending on which drabbles you're reading, and a few tiny crossovers (like "Leverage" below). They're also mostly based on one word prompts, so if you've got any requests/prompts you'd like to see me write on, let me know!

Disclaimer: Nicht mein, nicht mein, immer nicht mein.

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Gain

She looks at her hands – her surgeon's hands – and thinks of all she has given up. And then she thinks of the house that is just big enough, the tortoise in the living room, and the man seated in the chair beside the fire, and thinks of all she has gained.

Family

Sometimes, she thinks she could strangle him – him with his socks and sweaters and tea – but then she will see him with their tortoise or his bees, and she can't quite hide the smile that tugs at her lips.

Leverage

Sometimes, the great Sherlock Holmes is wrong. It wasn't four people that broke into the Leviathan safe the first time, but five: a thief, a hacker, a hitter, a grifter – and a mastermind.

Misanthrope

He was a misanthrope. She was not. Perhaps that's what drew them together. She was a misanthrope. He, in the end, was not. He knows that's what tore them apart.

Hands

He loves her hands. They're unique – surgeon's hands, with piano fingers from her lessons as a child. Her hands are long, slender, and skilful, and he begs her to play for him. She loves his hands. They're unique – callused from work and his violin. His left hand is slim and flexible, years of finding notes up and down the smooth ebony fingerboard making it pliant. His right hand, in contrast, is rough with calluses, years of elegant bowstrokes causing a permanent bend in his fingers. His hands are strong and she begs him to play for her.

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That's all for today! Let me know what you think in a review, and feel free to request any prompts you'd like to see!


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed/favourited/followed! I've got another few drabbles here. Prompt requests are welcome!

Disclaimer: Ewig nicht mein. Wirklich.

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Beauty

She is beautiful. Beautiful, but terrible. Her eyes are stone cold and bitter, and he feels his love turn to dust. She is beautiful. Beautiful, and fierce. Her eyes are fiery and intelligent, and he feels their friendship turn to love.

Heart

She was a painter. He loved her, and then she broke his heart. She was a surgeon, and then his companion. Now she is his partner, his other half – and she has mended his heart.

Surprise

She walks into his home one afternoon, and he is instantly on guard. And then she walks past him, up the stairs, and into a bedroom down the hall, and he can honestly say that he is surprised when the door is closed firmly and neither occupant resurfaces until the morning.

Scars

They are scarred in different ways, the three of them – scarred by each other, and in turn healed. It is the most complex love triangle any of them has ever thought about.

Path

In the end, it is his path to choose – between the two of them, between hot and cold, fire and ice. Between the surgeon and the painter.

Nemesis

She is his nemesis – or so he thinks. He doesn't realize whose nemesis she truly is until he sees the painting (her work, of course) that takes up her entire wall. He glances at the other woman beside him, then at the painting, and then at the painter herself, and he finally understands.

Common

They are both strong, powerful women, each with blazing minds and impeccable dress sense. They have so much in common, and yet he is blindsided when, instead of looking at him, they turn to each other.

Devil

The devil isn't a black-shrouded figure, fearsome and monstrous. No, to him the devil is an elegant, golden-haired woman with a lovely face and a razor-sharp smile. The devil is dark, and angels aren't gilded, ethereal beings cloaked in white. Angels are beautiful women with long, straight, dark hair, slanted eyes, and cheekbones as steep as cliffs, women with the power to overcome the devil through sheer willpower and strength alone.

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Review?


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: finally got around to posting more of these :) they're still mostly super short, but there's a long one at the end.

Disclaimer: Nicht mein. Ich bin sicher.

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Catalyst

She is his foil, or so he thinks. Strong where he is weak, cruel where he is kind, aloof where he is emotional. And then another woman walks into his life, and as he compares the two, noting the similarities and differences, he realizes that these women were never meant for him – he is simply the catalyst that drove them together.

Opposite

The two of them are polar opposites. One is blonde, with golden skin and a taste for dark colours and darker wine. The other is dark haired, with pale, milky skin and a wardrobe of whites and greys that emphasize her expressive dark eyes. They have nothing in common besides the empty space in their hearts that is the perfect size for the other.

Colour

She's always liked white. It is pure, not the absence of colour but rather every colour at once, and it is striking against her dark hair. Then, she meets her match – a woman whose clothes are dark like her soul and harsh against pale, golden hair. These days, her wardrobe is evenly split between white and black, between light and dark, between herself and her equal in all things. She likes it that way.

Equal

He thinks of her as the most beautiful woman in the world, her golden hair and sweet face attracting him like rich honey. She is the first to match him, challenge him in a way that is exhilarating and unique and lovely, and he thinks there will never be one to surpass her. Then, he meets his best friend, a woman as beautiful as his first love, in her own way – dark hair, dark eyes, and angular face as bittersweet as dark chocolate. She doesn't surpass her predecessor – he's right about that – but she equals the other in every way, from her beauty to her brilliant mind.

Contrast

They are so different in his mind, so unmistakably separate that when he sees them together for the first time, he nearly faints. One, golden and glorious beside the other, dark and irresistible. And then something slips into place in his mind, and he sees that they're not so different after all – both strong, intelligent, capable, and with the power to capture his heart.

Yin and Yang

They're like the _taijitu_ , yin and yang, light entwined with darkness. He was wrong, he realizes – he's not the light to one's dark or the dark to the other's light. He's the thin line that marks the border between them, the one thing they truly share and prevents them from exploding together until neither dark light remains.

Choice

To him, she's nameless, her identity no more than a mix of images that play through his incredible mind at the speed of light. She is colour, laughter, and fun – and then she is an empty apartment, a shattered bottle of champagne, and a pool of blood. When they're reintroduced, he weeps into her skin and kisses her hair, so glad to have her back that at first he doesn't notice what's different about them. And then she, his best friend, opens his eyes to the truth about his old lover, and he begins to catalogue the little things – her accent isn't quite as he remembers it, her eyes veiled with secrets, her touch not as kind. She, on the other hand, is the same as she's always been – worried for him, distrustful of the ghosts from his past, and always, always gentle. So when the choice comes, between his first love and his companion, his _partner_ – he realizes that it's not a choice at all, because what he feels for the former can't even begin to compare for what he feels for the latter.

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whooo I had a hard time naming that last one...as usual, any prompt requests are welcome and appreciated, as are reviews *wink*


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: They're a bit longer this time, so there aren't as many...mostly Watson/Holmes interactions in this set, and a healthy does of AU and angst. Prompts are always welcome. Reviews are necessary.

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Lifetime

She is danger, pure and unadulterated. She is danger, and her kisses are a bitter fire that he can't get enough of. She is passion and glory and wild, wild nights of skin on skin and he is utterly drunk on her. Then she's dead and there's nothing but blood on the floor of her apartment and his heart shatters into a million pieces because now that she's gone there's nothing to keep him from falling. So he trades one addiction for another, turning from _Irene_ and whatever they had to heroin and the blissful oblivion that allows him to forget his father and brother and mother and lover (he's too blinded to see that the drugs, rather than helping him out of the abyss, are dragging him down into it). He almost dies thanks to the opiates and his father can't have that, so he sends him to Hemdale and then to an alien house with a stranger for a babysitter (he's too bitter to see that she's so much more than that).

Gradually, though, the brownstone becomes home (and so does she) until they're partners and best friends and there's never a Holmes without a Watson anymore. She's saved him, pulled him up out of the pit he was in until he's floating above its edge and the world is full of light and promises – and then she's back and he's blinded once more, blind to her faults and to the other woman that now stands beside him, slanted eyes dark and unreadable, blinded to the fact that he doesn't need his old lover anymore because he's got something so much better. Blind to the fact that he's falling once more, that the sinkhole of his nightmares is clawing at him, until she says in that quiet way of hers that she'll leave him with her, with his lover and his tearful reunion, because she's neither needed nor wanted anymore.

And then he sees the abyss looming before him and he is so inexplicably glad to find that she's not _Irene_ but _Jamie_ and that he doesn't have to fall anymore (because while Irene was brightness and summer, Jamie is darkness and icy winter and he can't love either of them because Irene was never real in the first place and Jamie is the force that drags him down). And he realizes this, but still he is powerless to stop the wave of destruction that will wipe out his life if she wins – powerless, until his best friend solves her like a puzzle, analysing and cataloguing and deducing all that he can't see. So she fights away his demons and he is so, so grateful in a way that can't be expressed in words (he's never been good at words, anyway) so instead he thanks her in the only way he can, and together they watch the Euglassia Watsonia emerge into the sunlight.

Fire

She is fire. Her eyes are dark, blazing with emotion, and her small frame nearly shakes with the strength of anger and love and fear inside her. She burns, fiery and beautiful, and when he is near her he feels her warmth as his own. One day, he leaves, and she is alone in his-her-their house. Her fire sputters and nearly, nearly goes out because he is fuel to her flame and without him she is cold and distant. When he comes back, new protégé in tow, she's built a wall of ice around her burning heart and retreated deep within herself. And then as they grow back together, the warmth that he thought was a reflection of her own fire melts her icy heart until they are together and aflame once more.

Identity

He wonders who he is. It's a topic he can't seem to let go of, despite the space it takes up in his attic of a brain. He sees her, secure in who she is (he doesn't see the insecurity until he leaves and comes back), and wonders how she can be so sure of herself, so confident and strong. Then he's gone and when he comes back, a traumatized young woman behind him, he sees just how much she's broken without him and it's all he can do to not pull her close until their souls are together and he can convince her that he's never letting go again. And as he sees her vulnerability, that side of her that no one (not even her lover) sees, he realizes that it doesn't matter who he is or what he is because all that's important is _why_ he is and the woman whose companionship gives him a reason for living.

Shame

He's so ashamed. He feels the guilt and remorse churning within him so violently that he wants to turn over and vomit until he's purged his system of sin and he can look her in the eye again (it's the way she won't meet his eyes that strikes deeper than anything). He's taken her trust and faith and stomped it into the ground in the space of a few seconds, and he can almost feel her disappointment. He wants her to rage, rage and burn and shout because he knows how to deal with her anger – it's the bone-chilling, icy disappointment that cuts him to the quick. He opens his eyes, then, and with every fibre of his body he calls out to her, expressing just how _sorry_ he is and willing her to believe him when he says this is the last time. She doesn't look at him and he turns over, willing himself to sleep just so that he doesn't have to stay in that cold hospital room with her disappointment. But then a small hand, smooth and familiar, slips into his and a tiny smile curves the corners of his mouth as sleep claims him.

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Feed the review monster. Moar.


	5. Chapter 5

Relationship

There aren't any labels for what's between them – not because it's complicated, but because it's simple. He doesn't want to live without her, and she feels the same about him. Their relationship isn't about watching where they step and what they say, it's about friendship and trust and bees and tortoises. Their relationship is seven televisions and roosters and defeating each other's ex-lovers and naming bees after each other, and they like it that way. To everyone else, it's love – a kind of love so unique that it only works for the pair of them, who are as crazy as they come. In the captain's eyes, she's saved him and he loves her for it. In the detective's eyes, he's as mad as she is and _she_ loves _him_ for it. To his protégé, they've only got eyes for each other and woe betide anyone who tries to come between them. To his (her) arch-nemesis, their relationship is madness and folly and blind, blind emotion. They don't have names for what they have together – it's just partnership and shared space and reliance on each other and so many other things that can't be summed up by a single word, and that's fine by them. He's never needed words to tell her how he feels, anyway, and she's become extraordinarily good at haptic communication. It's a situation that needs no headings or definitions because it's unique and infinite and _them_.

Dance

They are more than partners. More than companions, flatmates; other platitudes that cannot begin to describe what is between them. More than partners, and yet not lovers – because what they have is so, so precious, and neither will risk it on feelings that could change. They've both felt it – felt the pull that draws each to the other, to the only person who truly _understands_ – but they resist, because they _do_ understand, they realize with those brilliant minds that to chance their relationship on something as trivial as love is utter folly. And so they dance around each other, unbearably close but never quite touching, and it is both a relief and the worst pain either of them has ever felt.

Everything

He wants to tell her. He yearns to allow the words to pass his lips and to release himself from their weight in his chest, but he won't – won't, because the moment he speaks them the words will become trifling and insincere and he is anything but. So he tries to communicate in that most ancient form – through gestures and glances and movements and he hopes that she understands, hopes that his eyes say what he cannot, hopes she reads the _without you, I was nothing_ and the _with you, I'm something_ because he can't say it out loud. Then, one day, when he's practically given up hope and resigned himself to speaking the words aloud, she meets his gaze – and his breath catches and his heart races, because she _does_ understand, and her eyes are telling him _together, we're everything_.

Lost

Irene Adler walks into the life they've built for themselves and Watson's world shatters. She and Sherlock are – _were_ broken, and they've just managed to fix themselves, and then _she_ waltzes in and Watson's not entirely sure how to feel. She's upset, because this is the woman that broke Sherlock's heart and sent him spiralling into a pit of drugs and despair, and she doesn't know if she can help him, this time. She's angry, too, and just a bit hurt that Sherlock's dropped her like an old penny in favour of his ex-girlfriend because what about everything they've done in the past year – what about the fact that he's the best friend she's ever had and she doesn't want to lose him? There's also the overwhelming unease that accompanies the blonde's entrance into their world, because Irene is too perfect, too golden, too confused by her supposed 'abduction' for it all to add up. But she loves Sherlock – she does, and she's not sure if it's romantic or platonic or whatever – but she loves him and he loved Irene and that has to be enough for now. So she swallows her emotions and tells him that she'd be perfectly all right with leaving the brownstone (her _home_ ) if he and Irene want it to themselves, even if her entire body screams at her that it's a lie.

Found

He looks at her as though she's grown a second head and tells her 'of course you don't have to leave, Watson, this is your _home_ ' and damn if she doesn't feel just a little bit found.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: it's been a while, sorry...but I'm back now! This fic is now being graaaaaaaadually posted on tumblr (one drabble at a time), so check it out!

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Change

The dynamic between the three of them is in a perpetual state of change. They begin as two against one, Holmes and Watson united against the evil that is Moriarty. Then, Jamie shifts her attention from her ex-lover to a far more fascinating target – and Joan and Jamie explode. Watson is fiery, brave; fierce in a way that is both foreign and familiar to Jamie (who, in turn, faces the other woman's fire with her own silky darkness). And then they evolve, the two women separating (because they are _too_ different to be anything but clashing forces) and Sherlock in turn stepping out of their shadows and into the light. Watson is still bright and burning, a beacon in the night, but she no longer hurls herself against Moriarty's all-encompassing darkness. Sherlock is a pillar of ice between them, calming both Watson's fire and Jamie's twilight, cool and yet sharp. And this the way they are meant to be; equals, rivals and allies in turn, simultaneously aflame and icy and dark.

Sight

He sees every side of her. He sees her shy side, the quiet, introverted Joan that loves her red cardigan and falls asleep with her glasses still on her face. He sees her vulnerability, the side that she hides from the world – the part of her that resurfaces every time she steps into a hospital; that brings back memories of scalpels and blood and surgeries gone wrong. He sees her anger, fierce and bright, sparked by injustice and cruelty, driving her to such bursts of emotion that he's amazed her small frame doesn't implode with the force. He sees disappointment, incurred when he relapses and often accompanied by bone-deep weariness. He sees her confidence, her pride; her unshaking faith, all evident in the way she manages to somehow intimidate him despite being at least half a foot shorter than he is. He sees her protective nature, the way she subconsciously shields him from the world and is always, always there to fight the demons away. He sees her friendship – her love, that unquenchable blaze that burns beneath her skin and fills her with such warmth that he is drawn like a moth to the flame. He sees _Watson_ , all of her, and he loves her for it.

Predator

Jamie Moriarty is a snake. She is cunning, sly, clever, and those brilliant eyes of hers bore into her victims as though she sees through them to their very souls. She glides through the shadows, always waiting. Sherlock Holmes is a hawk. His sharp eyes miss nothing, all-seeing, and he hovers far above the world, always watching. Joan Watson is a lion. She is fierce, brave, and proud, and she stalks the land as though she were its queen, bright eyes strong and challenging. All three are predators, one the queen of shadows, one king of the open sky, one the queen of far-reaching plains. They are imposing figures, locked in a constant battle for dominance, these three rulers of the world.

Need

She says she's leaving, and his heart shatters. He hears her on the phone, making plans to see an apartment, and he is filled with a sudden panic that has nothing to do with the case they're working, because how is he supposed to even try to function if she's not there? She's his counterpart, his better half, the other part of a package deal – there's no Holmes without his Watson, and if she leaves he knows he'll implode. She can't go, because he needs her – needs her like he's never needed anyone before. He needs her companionship, her friendship, her _love_ because she keeps him sane and he'll go mad without her. He needs her so much that he begs her on his knees to stay with him, and when she does, his relief is so great he thinks he'll cry.

Evolution

He infuriates her. His quirks, his oddities, his complete _abnormality_ all manage to piss her off so much that at first, six weeks can't go by soon enough. But she's more like him than she realized, and the challenge he poses merely as a client fascinates her so much that six weeks become eight, then ten, then so many months have passed that she can't imagine leaving him. She's startled to find that she's grown used to him, to his constant presence. Her world has become him and their tortoise and his bees and their brownstone, and any break in this routine would utterly destroy her. It's why she's so off-balance when they find Irene, because she doesn't fit into their relationship and if Irene wants her gone, then Sherlock will send her away without so much as an apology. It is then that she discovers that she loves him – loves all his quirks and oddities and complete _abnormality_ because he's her best friend and she couldn't imagine him any other way.

Interest

She doesn't show it, but Jamie Moriarty is instantly fascinated by Joan Watson. The other woman is beautiful, entrancing, angular face and solemn eyes lending an air of mystery and nobility to her character. She is clever and intuitive, and Jamie's shocked to find that Watson mistrusts her from the moment she sets eyes on her – Sherlock is blinded, as she expected, but his partner is anything but, and she is both dangerous and intoxicating and Jamie can't seem to stay away.

Unexpected

There are two people in the world who have the power to surprise Jamie Moriarty. One is quite obvious, a mind to rival her own in brilliance and firmly on the 'good' side of the law. Sherlock Holmes is her opposite and his abilities are expected. The other is different. Joan Watson is quiet, unassuming, hiding the machinations of her mind behind thoughtful eyes and polite smiles. She is beautiful and noble and Jamie can't stop underestimating her, because Watson's not a mascot, she's not a glorified angel to fight away Sherlock's demons. The other woman is as brilliant as she is and entirely neutral when it comes to sides – and her abilities are entirely _unexpected_.

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Reviews keep me posting, so if you want to see more...


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: These drabbles have been in progress for years, now, but I'm only just getting around to posting them, so I felt like I should issue a warning - I'm not super happy with the way all of them turned out (especially since my style's changed a lot in two years), but in the spirit of posting fics for my fave show, I'm putting them out there. Thanks for sticking with me through this fic!

Disclaimer: Nope. Sorry.

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Neutral

The three of them are the same in terms of brilliance. A mastermind, a detective, a surgeon – these are not careers that accept idiots. They all have keen minds and sharp wits and are more than a match for each other in that regard. But where they differ is in their loyalties. Sherlock is _good_. He is fair to a fault and has a keen sense of justice – justice that often manifests itself in the form of revenge. But if Sherlock is good, then Jamie Moriarty is _bad_. She's wicked and clever and always puts herself first. She screams _danger_ at those who see her and her sly smile strikes fear into the hearts of her opponents. They're natural-born enemies, Jamie and Sherlock – good versus bad, as it always has been. Watson is different. Sherlock and Jamie snipe at each other and target each other and that's all well and good, but Watson has no interest in it – she is decidedly _neutral_. She's Sherlock's best friend, his grounding, his rock, and he can count on her silent support. But Watson is also cunning and bright and able to use her talents for whatever purpose she chooses, just as easily aligned with Moriarty as she is with Sherlock. She could tip the balance between Sherlock and Jamie with a single word, choose one over the other in the time it takes to say 'I love you.' But she won't, because she loves _both_ of them equally. She loves Sherlock, his heart and loyalty and sheer _goodness_. She loves Jamie, her wit and danger and pure _evil_. So she marks the line between them, a steadfast barrier that stops the other two from tearing them all apart.

Regret

It doesn't matter if she loves him (she doesn't). He's a means to an end, a useful tool and nothing more. It doesn't matter that he's the only mind (that she knows of) that can rival her own. She uses him and discards him and leaves him broken and she tells herself _she doesn't care_ , but that doesn't stop her from looking back just once with regret.

Ghosts

None of them are pure. They're all scarred in different ways, scarred by past and present and each other. Sherlock is haunted by his father and his mother's ghost and the spectres of his drug use, and so he goes to meetings and talks to Alfredo and works with the captain and puts it out of his mind as best he can. Jamie is scarred by her lover and her child and her work, but she ignores the despair and remembers her daughter as she was (smiling, laughing, loving) and channels her love and rage into becoming the best criminal mastermind New York has seen. Watson is tortured by her patient and her career and all those she couldn't save, but she turns to detective work and reconciles with her mother and talks to her brother and his wife and tries to put herself back together. They all have ghosts, but time will help them heal and they will be stronger for their suffering.

Walls

He's been isolated all his life. Mycroft is older than him and leaves as soon as he can, his father doesn't care, and his mother is dead. He's built up walls around his heart, walls that clench his heart in an iron grip and harden him from the world. But she is oxygen and she rusts his iron walls until they crumble and she steps into his heart, this woman who is his best friend and protectress in one.

Smile

His smile is not a smile, when they first meet. It is a grimace, twisted with regret and self-disgust and bitterness. It matches the feelings he holds deep inside him, feelings that were born when he lost the only woman he ever loved. She finds it hard to smile back. Then they grow together, and the bitterness and disgust diminish until he carries only regret inside him, regret that won't fade because he had no closure and he thinks his lover's death is his fault. The regret only fades when _Irene_ becomes _Moriarty_ and they solve her like a riddle. His smile is slight, but genuine as he looks at her, trust and friendship shining in his eyes, and her answering smile is blinding.

Broken

Perhaps she turns to Mycroft because he is the only other person in the world who can understand what it feels like to be broken by Sherlock Holmes.

Season

They're different parts of the year, the three of them. Sherlock is spring. He is both frost on the ground and tiny flowers and green grass stems standing tall in the cold earth. He is bitter and sweet and new and clean in a way Jamie and Joan will never be. Jamie is summer. She is glory and sun and scorching heat and she burns those around her with a fire none can hope to match. Her gaze is blazing and dangerous and entirely too enthralling. Watson is winter. She is cool and calculating, distanced and aloof, burying secrets beneath thick clouds and hard ice. She is wintry and sharp and harsh, but she is also soft snow and hot cocoa and angels and family, and she embraces the other two with the entirety of her contradictory being.

Autumn

Autumn belongs to all of them and none of them. It begins with Jamie's warm sun and long days that shorten, becoming the cool, rainy days that mimic Sherlock's spring. Joan holds the end of autumn, when the rains give way to snow and day becomes night all too quickly, when frost creeps across the ground and ice forms on her eyelashes during her morning run.

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Reviews are necessary. Our tiny tiny fandom has too few fics for us not to support each other so _please_ (cue shameless puppy-dog eyes) review?


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